


Crimson

by Minhoe



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Art, Artist!Yuta, Colors, M/M, Synaesthesia, apparently it has a name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minhoe/pseuds/Minhoe
Summary: Yuta is a young artist who has lost his muse. The man of crimson helped him see the colors of the world again.





	1. Évasion d'un détail

Yuta remembers when was the first time he fell in love with art. It was probably that first time he visited at an art museum in middle school, his eyes roaming over the colorful rectangle presented in front of him. It was just a splash of few oil colors, pastel violet decorating its frame and the other soft colors were blending in each other as they were making _nothing_ and _everything_ at the same time.

 

It was a belgian exhibition, involving  mostly abstract, vague and surreal works of art, but the one that caught his eyes the most was that beautiful canvas rectangle, screaming quietly out of its fabric cage. It was hypnotizing to be sucked into this type of aesthetic, almost forgetting he didn’t even know who painted the mortifyingly gorgeous piece of art.  
It was a long complicated name, but Yuta would never let himself forget the name of the artist that made him fall in love with colors. It was Pierre Alechinsky’s _Évasion d'un détail_ _._

 

 _The escape of the detail_ , such a proper name for the mixture of nonsense hanged on the pure white wall.

 

They were not allowed to take any pictures, but the guide told him it was available as a small postcard at the gift shop.

And every day he looked at the small deflated version of his first love, he discovered something new. Sometimes, a new color, or a new animal he thought the artist hid,  and even faces. He could see one droopy expression in the middle of the mess of colors, surrounded by other little expressions and faces, some happy and some gloomy.  
It never failed to amaze him how one painting can change his perspective on life.

 

In everything he did or said, Yuta saw colors. In every number or word he wrote or read,  he saw paints erupting out of it. When he ate a new dish or smelled something unfamiliar, he felt the colors of it being injected into his veins, and straight to his heart.

 

The first time Yuta’s paint brush touched the canvas, he swore he found a new world, only waiting to be explored and conquered by him, a world that nobody but him can see` therefore, he must show it to the world in the only way he knows and loves best - colors.

His wrist flicked gracefully over the fabric, leaving trails of light blue. He wasn’t even sure what he was drawing, and decided it doesn’t matter.

So, Yuta imagined the things he loved the most. He imagined himself kicking a football at the park, so he deepened his brush in a green oil paint, grazing it in circles over the light blue one. He envisioned himself being lulled to sleep by his mother’s voice like she used to do when he was a child, and yellow and pink embellished the coldness of the green and blue.

 

It was the birth of his first finished work of art. When Yuta finally took a step back to examine his effort, he sighed tiredly, trying to brush to splashes of paint on his cheeks, only smearing it more.

 

When he finally graduated from the university, with an art degree in his hands and resume, his paintings were becoming darker, and not just by color. Instead of pale yellow or pastel green illuminating his abstract products on the canvas, grey and black took place.

Instead of eruption of colors and tastes he once felt coming from the veins in his mind or heart, a heavy cloud of silver lining was dissolving his feeling of misfigured inspiration into thin dust. Colorless dust that flew with the wind to faraway destinations Yuta could probably never reach.

 

Yuta decided not to sit quietly until the cloud will consume his soul, and bought with the little he owned a plane ticket to Korea. If inspiration will not come to him in Osaka, somewhere else must help him. Plus, it would be a great opportunity to show off his korean skills, majoring in it for the past four years of studying.

 

\------

 

It’s been two weeks since Yuta came to Korea, but nothing seemed to ignite anything in him. His chest felt a little empty and dry, like a desert; barren from life and inhabitable for emotions.

 

Yuta was sitting in a warm coffee shop near the Han river. The cold feeling of November’s chilly wind creeping in the streets of Seoul slowly, but steady. He had his worm jacket and coat to turtle himself in, sipping from his covered paper cup the last hot droplets of the bitter liquid.  
For him, coffee is the definition of the color Orange; Strong and flamboyant, yet kicking and hard to swallow. Because this is how his mind worked, in colors.

 

He took out the little postcard he still kept in his wallet. And put in between his fingers. It’s been a long time since he traced a new object in the painting, feeling lost in between the stripes and dots and vague figures of nothing. His thumb ran over the middle of the rectangle as he tried to examine the expression of the face the blended colors created, purposely or not, but his eyes so nothing. Nothing but the emptiness he was already consumed by almost fully.

 

It was the usual hour of the day he was sitting in the coffee shop. The paper cup long left forgotten on the table as his fingers tapped on the table, frustrated from himself. It was all too usual for him, even at a foreign country that started to feel more like home to him.

 

The thing that wasn’t usual for him, was the person sitting on the fake leather couch in the other side of the shop, his eyes observing that hot beverage in his mug without lifting it off the table to drink. The person looked troubled, his fingers fumbling with the sleeves of his sweater distractingly.

Yuta didn’t know what went through his mind when he lifted the postcard in his hand  and placed it his eye level, creating the illusion that the painting was as big as the man sitting few meters across from him, unaware of Yuta’s heartbeats growing faster and faster as his pupils jumped from the person’s expression to the one he sees in the pastel painting.  
Yuta’s stare was locked on the other man’s features, and he felt a strong thick line of Crimson making it’s way from his heart to his veins, fingers already tingly to hold a brush.

 

When he got back to his hotel, his trembling hand took out the oil paints that were waiting patiently in his suitcase to be used.

 

The first glide of the strong red paint over the canvas set sparks in Yuta’s soul, letting every strong color he can think of take place in the mixture of flooding objects; the Crimson was the main color of this one, following little sparks of Magenta and Scarlet.

It took just about a week to declare the painting done, still feeling a little mesmerized by the person who gave him back the taste and smell of colors.

Yuta titled the work as _Unknown Stranger._ At first, he wanted to call it November’s Wind, but November is more of a dark blue-indigo than a crimson. And that man was definitely no indigo.

 

\------

 

“I haven’t seen you for awhile,” the waitress said as she served his drink. “I thought you left already.” She was smiling warmly. Yuta just thought to himself how couldn’t he notice how bright and bubbly her smile was until now, like an amber-ish sun.

 

“It’s going to take some time for me leave, so don’t worry.” He smiled back and she politely bowed, and went to serve other tables as well. Yes, he will definitely need more time to get the rest of himself back, to return to the roots of his inspiration.

 

It took a few more days, but the man of crimson finally stepped into the coffee shop once more, Yuta almost spilling the cup of coffee he was about to drink from. The man was standing in front of the cashier, ordering an Americano to-go.

Yuta decided he won’t be too smitten to be afraid to get closer this time.

 

When the man was about to leave, Yuta tapped on his shoulder. When the stranger turned around and look him straight in the eye, the painter felt as if he is drawn into a volcano of dark red, spiraling out of control, although the man himself was very calm.

“I’m sorry if I’m being weird,” Yuta just bulrted out. “But I just find you very interesting.”

 

The man chuckled. “Do we know each other?”

 

“No, like I said I just- I just find you very…” And Yuta froze. He couldn’t put description of the colors he felt into words. “I just found you very Crimson.”

 

And the man just smiled with his eyebrows raised high, exposing two lines of flashing teeth. He ran his hand through his black hair.

 

“I heard a lot of pick up lines before, but this one takes all.”

 

Yuta felt very uneasy. It wasn’t meant to be a line. He scratched the back of his head, looking for actual words.  
The stranger must have felt the confused atmosphere that surrounded the latter, smiling a little less teasingly. “My name is Taeyong.”

 

“Yuta.”

 

“I guess you’re not local, by your name and accent.”

 

“I have an accent?”

 

“A little bit.”

 

Yuta pretended to be irritated and rolled his eyes, but kept the widest smile he himself didn’t know could offer. He invited Taeyong to join and sit with him at the coffee shop, and the man of crimson took the offer pleasantly.

 

“So, what was the meaning of you finding me _crimson_?” Taeyong was sitting across from Yuta, his hand resting on the table and fingers drumming on the wooden surface. This time, Taeyong was wearing a leather jacket over a simple black jersey and old Levi’s. “I’m not wearing anything red.”

 

Yuta chuckled bitterly. “It’s not about clothes. It’s just something I have. I see everything in colors.” He cleared he throat and pointed at his own coffee mug. “This, for example, is Orange.”

 

“It looks light brown to me.”

 

“I’m not talking about the color of the drink. I meant the taste of it.”

 

Taeyong’s eyes scanned the drink and then looked back up at Yuta, and down again at the coffee - switching from the mug to the latter’s eyes repetitively.

 

“You’re joking, right?”

 

Yuta shook his head slowly. “That’s how I see the world. I mean, I can see it’s light brown, and I can see there is nothing crimson on you, but it just pops out of you. Another example - The smell of freshly mowed grass, to me, is not green. It’s a mixture of mustard-yellow and little orbs of grey.”

 

When Yuta felt the trance of colors passing over him, he noticed Taeyong sat unmoving in his seat, mouth gaping a bit and his chin resting in his palm.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m being weird.”

 

“Not at all. I always look at things as they are. I see things pretty the same as they are presented to me.”

 

“If you want,” Yuta leaned forward on his elbows, “I really want to let you see what I see.”

 

“So _this_ is the line I was waiting for.” Taeyong said, and sipped from the half-warm coffee in his hand. “And I would like that very much.”

 

Yuta smiled, and he swore he felt little violet waves brushing in between his ears, turning darker and darker as Taeyong and him settled to meet at the same place in two days.

 

When Taeyong already left through the door and into the cold street, Yuta could still feel his crimson aura lingering around him even when he already reached his hotel room, picking up one of his brushes and starting to draw those waves of violet on another canvas, out lining them with strong red color, that merged into the violet bit by bit as the painted area expanded more and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is now 3 a.m, and I need to wake up at 6 a.m, and I want to cry because YuTae are making my life harder. Plus, I'm an art nerd, so I wrote this in one go before it was too late.  
> I don't know If I'll continue this or not (probably will because I have a lot of will power when I'm determined about a certain scenario).
> 
> I also don't know if other people actually have this, but I literally wrote the way I see or feel things, just from Yuta's point of view - coffee really is orange to me, and even numbers and months. Did I mention I'm an art nerd?
> 
> long story short, YuTae are the death of me and inspiration caught me as I stumbled upon Pierre Alechinsky's works. (And after a small research, I found out he was fascinated by Japanese calligraphy and it made me laugh a little because this is such a coincidence.)
> 
> please tell me what you think in the comments :) Toodles!


	2. Disparaître

The following days with the man of crimson were incomparable to the lonely days and nights Yuta had to spend by himself during those weeks in the smug-feeling atmosphere of Seoul. It felt as if the buildings were looking down at him, covering along with the clouds the warming sun’s spiraling beams that hit soundless on top of them.

But Taeyong was there to lights his grey days. Sometimes waiting for the foreign artist at the coffee shop with two steaming mugs, ready to be downed by the both of them. 

 

Yuta have been dating before back in Japan. Neither of his past partners felt as unique and unintentionally influencing as the man of crimson in front of him. It felt as daggers of purple kept creeping into his lungs every time he inhaled Taeyong’s strong scent - perhaps his cologne - it was a little masochistic of him to not do anything direct about his desires. So instead, he took it out on the canvas or sketchbook, whatever came first to his searching hands.

 

Listening to Taeyong’s voice became one of Yuta’s lullabies before falling into sweet elusive sleep - it became a habit to listen to Taeyong on the phone rant about anything or nothing, neither really cared, his mellow sleep-deprived tone is what kept Yuta wanting to fall asleep as fast as he could just to wake up to the same voice first thing in the morning.

 

When Yuta woke up on one Sunday morning, he could breath in a coral-like dust, only opening his eyes to realize it is still winter. He stood up, cleaning the misleading dust off his eyes and nose to open the curtains and stare right into the eye of the storm.

 

The view of the crying sky above him looked very familiar, and he tried to link the dots in his mind to make the picture clearest as possible.   
It hit like some kind of heaven, thrilling and itching crawl of indigo under his skin. Yuta immediately grabbed one of his art books, searching frantically for the image he swore he once felt crawling under his skin.

 

His hand stopped at page 118, his fingertips tapping an unfamiliar beat on the shining paper, his teeth catching his already abused bottom lip - the whole page was covered with another oil paint of Alechinsky. 

It was like a misty cloud or smoke, made of mixed blue and grey. Yuta saw in his eyes the brushes of the illustrious painter dancing randomly but with full purpose on the canvas, creating a whole new world of colors and vibes - other fierce spits of yellow made their way into the painting, and some grassy green and a little orange.

 

On the top right corner of the painting there was a spinning tornado - it did not move, of course, but under the right eyes, the whole world could be sucked into the twirling spot.

 

With all the mess of colors and shades, there was one big blank space in the middle. It wasn’t completely blank, some splashes of dark blue smeared all over it, but it was cold. Colder than the rest of the storm around it.   
Yuta knew this paint for years, but never fell for it as much as he did now. The painting probably just laid there, waiting for him to find the right time to connect his heart to it, to the right feeling and vibe and place and force.

 

Yuta could sympathise with it.

Again, in a long time, he found himself in a creation that wasn’t his in the first place.

 

He will get back to himself one day, piece by piece - the puzzle still has a long time to be recreated.

 

Just as the title of the painting -  _[ Vanish  ](https://www.guggenheim.org/artwork/205) _ \- His self contemplation vanished as thin air when his phone rang loudly.

 

Yuta’s ear was drenched by Taeyong’s sleepy and scratched voice across the other line of the phone, mumbling a “Good morning” with a proposition of going somewhere different than the coffee shop, if the rain will subside anytime soon.

 

\------

 

The rain did dry out, almost in a perfect timing for them to go outside the too warm and too comfortable coffee shops - worrying they might fall asleep from overloading coziness.

 

The air of the urban park in the middle of Seoul was making its way through Yuta’s nostrils, filling his lungs in a soury lime shade as his fingers delicately grabbed the wax crayon that scribbled down the sketchbook he was holding.

Taeyong sat on the same bench as him, trying his best not to spoil a move.

 

“You can move you know, I'm not drawing anything realistically.”

Yuta was still focused on his little sketch, not really looking away from the paper as he was searching for another darker shade of cherry.

 

Taeyong then pressed himself to the latter’s shoulder, peeking over it to study the medley of red and purple.    
Yuta was sure he is going to make a comment about how  _ it does not look like him,  _ but instead, his prediction met with silence. He could notice Taeyong was tilting his head a little, eyes squinting.

 

“It’s called aesthetics.” Yuta said quietly, as if he tried not to disturb Taeyong. “Rather than drawing people’s features, I learned how connect the right color to its mate, in which way, in what blend. It’s harder, in my opinion.”

 

“Can I have this?” Taeyong gestured to the sketch. 

 

“I’ll be offended if you won’t.”

 

And with those little happy wrinkles around Taeyong’s eyes as he smiled to the artist, his hand brushed over the back of Yuta’s hand, the tip of his fingers passing through the narrow spaces between Yuta’s, holding tight.

 

In his eyes, Yuta saw again the painting that crawled into his skin earlier -  _ Vanish  _ \- but instead of the blank spot in the middle, he could see,  _ feel _ , the space was being filled with the strongest red he ever imagined. A field of soft spikes, caressing through the wind that danced around the tornado in the same dimension the field lied in.

  
  


\------

  
  


"Does it work the opposite way?" Taeyong blurted out, observing the foreign artist beside him gazing to the other side of the Han river, lips rubbing against each other to prevent them from freezing.

They were standing on the riverbank, behind the cool metal ledge, leaning on it with their elbows.   
  
"What does?"   
  
"Your color thingy."   
  
Yuta chuckled in a sigh. "Explain?"   
  
"Um, i mean…” Taeyong looked upwards to the sky, searching for his question in between the heavy clouds that sank low day by day. “You said when you first saw me you felt, like, red. But when you see a certain color, does it wake any association to specific things? People? objects?"   
  
"Not in particular. It's more of a vibe, than association.” Yuta sniffed, his palms hanging over the ledge, relaxed in the raving cold colors of December.   
  
“Red is a very strong and bold color, in every shade of it lies passion and activeness, it powerfully dominates the surroundings.” He closed his eyes and then opened them again, losing himself to the pattern of the words. “On the other hand, it could reflect for me  gentleness as much as power. Think about it as red satin fabric. It's shining and illuminated by the light, but when you touch it - it smoothes against your fingers delicately. Like water."   
  
Yuta didn't even notice he was looking directly into Taeyong's captivating eyes, and it felt as if they were on fire, radiating heat and simmer with want. 

Their gloved hands were both stiffened against the metal fence that separated between them and the waves of the river that the wind blew against in mixture of blue and grey, coating the area with a feeling of freezing time.   
  
"It's really hard for me not to kiss you right now." Taeyong’s voice reached to his ears as strings of fading violet.   
  
"I never said you couldn't."   
  
With half a smile that meant the world for Yuta, Taeyong's hand fondled with the edge of the artist's sleeve as he leaned closer in such a slow pace that matched to vibration of the wind against his strands.   
Yuta was closing the gap as well - and he swore he will never be able to translate the sensation of the crimson and magenta melting over his own lips.   
  


It felt so  _ red _ , so strong and harsh and unforgiving, and at the same time it caressed his mind in such dainty softness, letting his worries crumble into nothingness that brushes along with the wind up and out of his heart. It was an instinct to hold Taeyong as close as he could, twisting his head right, trying to taste more of the crimson - more of Taeyong.   
  
The shades of cherry and ruby were twirling around them just like Yuta’s mind, trying so hard to get a grasp of reality and breath again the tingling coldness of indigo that danced beside the lines of white and gray. 

 

Yuta fell deeper into the clouds of violet - thrilled by the drop of his heart as his soul was now crammed with the most colorful dust he have ever felt, flooding through the pockets of his brain.

 

He can feel colors again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really has been a long time since I posted anything :) Sorry for the delay!  
> I reallt want to make a third part, but I don't promise any closure because I'm a weird gal that likes stories with no actual end ^^  
> Please tell me what you think in the comments!
> 
> Oh and almost forgot to tell you to enter the link to the "Vanish" painting. Seriously one of my favorite pieces I've seen so far.


	3. Sous tutelle du rouge

The dissolution of the _blue era_ , as Yuta liked to call winter, came faster than he expected. Yet, he is not sure if it is because of the presence of the crimson near by, lighting up his life and igniting new sparks every morning as if it was the first morning he experienced since birth; or perhaps spring rushed this year to take place earlier than expected.

But those sparks were meant to follow him for a long time, he supposes, it is not temporary nor a coincidence; It is meant to be.

 

The illuminating red that crawled very noticed into his life, collecting his heart and mind in the process and carrying it to unknown velvety-like destination - was almost a part of him by now.

 

Yuta took a deep breath, sitting in an upright position in his bed against the soft pillow as he took in another shaky inhale. He glanced to his left, where Taeyong was still sleeping soundlessly, only his rising chest indicated he is still breathing.  
The crimson is not the only shade that lies in front of him at this moment, it is like a big bowl of colors melting into each other, dissolving into thin air that celebrated around them two.

 

The sun that gazed through the curtains above the bed caressed over their features, bringing the strong angles of Taeyong’s face into the spotlight they deserve.

Yuta decides to slide closer to him, and as he pulled himself to the latter’s body his hands brushed over his bare abdomen, until grabbing Taeyong closer and nuzzling his face in the crook between his head and his shoulder.

It was almost as perfect as Yuta could picture it on a canvas - a gentle line of light gold, its edges soiling the fabric corners in a magnificent mixture of beige and gold.

 

Beige.  
Yuta hated that color, always thinking it was too dull and not unique enough to shine on its own, but all the warm colors started to get a new vibe, and it was probably _grey_ he now dislikes, instead.

 

He pressed himself tighter to Taeyong, receiving a half-sleeping reaction of the latter circling his frame with his hands, his chin finding its way to rest comfortably on top of the artist’s hair.

 

They stayed like this for a couple of minutes, just taking in the atmosphere and the twirling sensation of being held so close to each other.

It took Taeyong few more minutes to decide he wants to look at Yuta’s face, letting his fingers threaded through the artist's brown strands softly, as if he was afraid to break him in his own embrace.

 

There was still shyness in Yuta’s hooded eyes, but yet it was so welcoming, so strong and even a little teary from waking up to the gleam of the sun.

 

Taeyong's fingers kept tracing trails in his hair as his second hand, that lied comfortably on Yuta’s back, was now brushing so very lightly over his spine, padding his way up and back down; too willing to let his gaze drop from the artist's eyes.

 

Both of their mouths were parted, like they wanted to say something that stood on the tip of their tongues, as if there was a confession or a secret threatening to fall off a cliff into the deep unknown water.

Yuta’s lips were probing for Taeyong’s, searching for the warm sensation they provided him from now and then, melting into the kiss softly before Taeyong finally pressed himself fully to the artist’s mouth, his hand that danced in his strands was now grabbing his locks tightly and Yuta didn’t even minded the burn on his scalp when the kiss intensified as the clock kept ticking on the wall across the bed.

 

The particles of warmer color came creeping down Yuta’s spine, lurking silently until it was their time to shine; waiting patiently.  
  
It didn’t take long before the man of crimson lifted his knee over Yuta’s, retracting him closer to his body, their lips and tongues colliding and setting sparks in the back of Yuta’s brain.  
The particles kept gathering with every touch of Taeyong, and it took them both a few more moments to realize they were moving in a rhythm against each other, creating friction that made Yuta pull away to let out a subtle groan, Taeyong following suit.

 

It was almost as re-living last night, and even the night before that - all of their shared nights tied in velveteen ribbon to the first time, and that time connects to the first time their lips touched and Yuta finally lost himself again in the world of colors, never wanting to find the door ever again, because on this side of the door - he has Taeyong.

 

The friction kept creating more of the smoke they both fell into, a soft thistle-colored smoke, and the Yuta couldn’t make himself repress those sounds any longers, moaning into Taeyong’s mouth submissively.

 

Taeyong took matters into his hands, kissing his lover sensually as he rolled on top of him, catching his palms in his hands and pushing them harshly, yet considerately, above Yuta’s head.  
Yuta’s head was spinning, too caught up in the moment to think about what to do next, but at the same time acting in an autopilot; raising his hips to meet with Taeyong’s thigh, trying to make the best out of this horribly unsatisfying position.

 

Although it was not the first time he gave himself to Taeyong, and probably not the last, it certainly _felt_ as it was. Like he was surrendering under the amount of red that wrapped him not even that long ago.

 

Yuta was then lying on his stomach, Taeyong’s hands touching and feathering _everywhere._ His lips hovered dangerously over his sensitive spots, darting his tongue every once in awhile to get him more worked up than he already was. It made Yuta let out moans that were reserved only to this man of crimson, that sensually roamed his body as if it was his to begin with; setting every limb and patch of skin on fire like it was thin paper and his lips were consuming flames.

 

The artist couldn’t tell if he was in heaven or hell when Taeyong finally led himself into him, entering him slowly from behind as they were both groaning tentatively - like there was still something to keep from each other.

 

They rocked against each other in an unspoken rhythm, Yuta’s face pushed into the pillow and his palms gripped the edges of the mattress, Taeyong’s hands exploring to reach them and grab them with force as he kept pushing in and out; an unforgotten dance.  
Yuta shuddered -  his mouth providing cracked sound and a tear was making its way from the corner of his eye to his cheek - Taeyong’s mouth was attached to his shoulder blades, trying to create a color Yuta will never want to forget.

 

Taeyong knew Yuta was now lost again in his own little world, wording out sentences in his foreign language that he wished to understand - and Yuta couldn’t resist the urge to do so, knowing perfectly the other couldn’t understand him, but they could still communicate and share desires through their bodies.

 

And yet, in a raspy and choked voice, Yuta’s request reached Taeyong’s heating ears like a drum in a parade - “I need to see your face.”

So he did as he was told, pulling away to flip his lover on his back before kissing him again hard - it was more of a collision of teeth and tongues than a kiss, but they couldn’t care less - Taeyong letting himself sink back to the heat he swore he will never be able to pull out of, groaning and groping Yuta’s sides, probably leaving scratches and bright red bruises.

 

Yuta was close. He kept pushing himself up to Taeyong’s merciless cock as his arms looped around his neck in such force that the latter’s chest hit Yuta’s, letting out another shaky moan before his lips were captured once more in a messy kiss.

 

The warm particles were too high up his mind, too close to erupt from his heart to the rest of his body and too sensitive to be treated lightly.

 

It was Taeyong’s coarse tone that brushed his earshell in a whisper that will be forever engraved in Yuta’s mind.

 

“I want you to come.”

 

And Yuta did as he was asked, letting himself fall back deeper to the cloud of colors that were now fireworks that captured his mind in a satin cage, sparks hitting the back of his eyes as he closed them hard, shouting from the pleasure of being driven to the paradise of shades and dazzling colors.

 

 

Getting down from that paradise was like leaving an unmarked canvas while making the biggest creation of the century, unable to get his mind around it without missing the complete and unknown result.

 

They were both drenched in their own sweat, still catching their breaths and looking at each other’s eyes - Yuta could see himself in Taeyong’s eyes, and he assumed that Taeyong did too; he looked exhausted but at the same time he felt pleased and happy.

 

Taeyong let go of Yuta’s ribs, his hand that only few moments before bruised him and punctured his skin, was then caressing his cheek and moving his sticky hair out of the way, so he could look better at Yuta’s beaming and blushing face.

 

Yuta didn’t want this to end.

 

\------

 

In life, there is what you want, and there is what you get - Yuta learned it the hard way.  
  
He wants to keep finance himself from doing what he loves and do best, but in this world of unlimited unappreciated great minds, he would probably get lost in the sea of “tryers”. What he gets is working part times, selling whatever he can to make a living and start a new week as fresh as he can be.

 

He wants to travel the world, to see new cultures and meet incredible and different people and learn all he can about the gifts mother earth gave us. What he gets is to live from paycheck to paycheck, to make sure he can keep up doing what he loves.

 

It all goes in the same circle of thorns, coated in dark grey layer of mistrust and disbelief.

If you put Taeyong in the equation, the thorns sharpens; making it impossible for Yuta to have it all while he knew he had complete nothing himself.

 

During that breathtaking morning, and after a shower and the coffee scent filling Taeyong’s apartment, they sat down on the table across the big window, the sun kept reaching the top and chasing time.  
  
Yuta stared at Taeyong, his head still fuzzy from just moments ago, but no smile was gracing his features. He told himself _there is an end to everything that starts_.

  
They were going out for just few weeks, made  love to each other when they could and talked the rest of the time (when Yuta was not painting and Taeyong was out of work) and it felt as if they found exactly what they were looking for, without really realizing what they were searching in the first place.  
  
Yuta was only looking for his muse, a new spark to ignite the feelings of colors in him once more, but instead he found more. So much more that he couldn’t label it right.  
But the truth is; Yuta is not from here. And he can’t stay.

 

And Yuta knew he must tell him. For the sake of both of them losing what they were never looking for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is going to be another chapter! I promise!  
> Those guys are literally the death of me.


	4. Facteur Rhésus / Ligne Directe

Ever since Yuta was introduced to the world of art, he tried to indulge himself as much as he could with the presence of masterpieces in his life, learning more and more about what have driven the artists to create whatever they were trying to express, what was hiding behind their intentions - every glide of the brush or every smear on the paper means something.  
That something, he believes, is not something they can suppress.

 

And so, he tried to live his life according to his own agendas, letting himself flow with the shades of his heart and mind.

There was also a sentence, by Alechinsky, of course, that Yuta cherished ever since he read it in one of his textbooks;

 

 _“When I paint, I liberate monsters. They are the manifestations of all the doubts, searches and groping for meaning and expression which all artists experience. One does not choose the content,_ **_one submits to it.”_ **

 

So he does.  
He submits to the dark shade of red that catches him almost unnoticed, submits to the feeling of being driven into euphoria that blinds him in a merciless grip, a grip that tightens every time he looks at the man of crimson in his arms.

 

Yuta submits himself to those monsters, drowning in the sea of simmering magenta that boils in his veins every day like he was taking the first breathe of his life.  
He submits to the crimson when he pushes backwards, Taeyong’s pelvis hitting him with such force that Yuta could swear his eyes shutted unwillingly.

 

Tayong nosed his way up Yuta’s back up to his burning ears, his rosy cheeks signaling him he is at the right road up to paradise once more. Taeyong’s lips were like melting rouge on the artist’s shoulder, biting and sucking until Yuta would scream out his name - the sheets already wrinkled in between his unforgiving knuckles.

 

The taste of crimson engulfed his tongue as he kept the same rhythm they settled unspokenly, embracing himself on his elbows and letting another wretched groan, tears peaking at the corners of his eyes as a result of the pain and the intensity he was taking in such willingness, forcing himself to keep up with the pace that quickened in every thrust he felt creeping up under his skin.

 

Yuta reached the motley heaven that decorated his mind in an explosion of colors and variegated shades as Taeyong was trying to catch an open-mouthed kiss before it dissipated, their lips barely touching when they both were letting out one last long whine.

 

The artist was taken down from cloud nine he was on forcibly, finding himself in an embrace he never wanted to let go of, with Taeyong’s fingernails digging into his back and nape.  
The man of crimson was shaking around him, his tone hoarse as he was trying to voice out - “Don’t go. I need you.”

 

It was like a battle cry of one of Yuta’s monsters, and even though he never wanted to fight it, he has to. This is a monster he had no control of, and it might rip his heart out, as it already felt like he was halfway in the depths of the terrorizing red ocean - he has to pull himself out of it to let himself live, breath.

Yuta didn’t answer. Instead he submitted once more, burying his face in Taeyong’s chest and inhaled his scent again and again; letting the crimson feeling scatter in the violet smoke that was still lying within his heart.

 

Taeyong fell asleep almost right after, wrapped in his own blanket as the rain was knocking on the window, begging to enter the room and soil the warm red atmosphere with its freezing grey breeze.

Yuta was sitting on the other side of the bed, head ducked between his hands as he tried to process all of his emotions at the moment, doing his best to translate all of his desires and passions into one certain shade that he could blemish the pure white canvas with.

 

It was too much, he was overdosed.

 

He got up, marching quietly to the other side of the room to his easel, where an empty canvas was standing, staring at him accusingly.  
He popped open one of his coloring tubes, squeezing it right onto the canvas and not even bothering to mix it with water as he picked up a brush and started smearing it all over the square blank space.  
It is hard to use acrylic without water, it’s too stubborn to spread correctly and wisely on the surface, but Yuta was stubborn as well to let it stop himself from filling up the canvas up till the last inch; all in the same shade of fiery red.

 

The strong scent of the paint was piling in his lungs, probably sticking to the apartment’s walls, sinking slowly into the foundations of the building as much to Yuta’s bones. He looked at the red square that shone in front of him, almost like it was the only color he could see in the world.  
He never understood how could people hate on modern or abstract art, when so many emotions and misery are invested in the process. He just wished people would know how much it hurt to _feel_ a color so intensely. And how hard it is to try and _forget_ it; to beat the monster down.

 

Yuta was almost tearing up when flinched at the touch of two cold hands snaking around his waist, and a pair of lips whispering his name over the goosebumps on his shoulder. He didn’t even noticed the room was dark, not even a glimpse of light spilling in for that it was the middle of the night when he tried to turn around and look at Taeyong’s face.  
It felt like an axe was splitting his heart in half when Taeyong caught his lips in a tender kiss, his cold hands trailing affectingly up his body to his jaw, cupping his face and thumb running slowly on his heating cheeks.  
  
Yuta’s hands stayed at the sides of his body, not reacting; perhaps afraid to interact.  
It’s easier to forget something you never remembered.

 

 _He is just a part of your journey_ , he thought to himself. _You can’t get everything you want._ _  
_ But neither of them knew if their crossed paths were what they wanted, or what they needed.

 

“Why don’t you hold me?” Yuta felt Taeyong’s voice over his lips, tasting his aura. “Why aren’t you telling me you are not going anywhere?"  
But Yuta’s hands were numb, his throat too dry to voice what his lover wanted to hear. Only Taeyong’s hands looped around his neck when he coarsely asked, “Why don’t you promise me you will come back to me?”

 

The string of shuttered words couldn’t come out of Yuta’s mouth, it was puncturing his insides and made his mind bleed;  
  
_Because I won’t_.

 

\------

 

“Take it.” Yuta said with an ordering tone as he handed a square shaped gift to Taeyong. It was thin as a canvas, and wrapped unprofessionally in a cheap beige paper. “If I need to choose someone to own it, it has to be you.”

They were standing outside the airport. People were going by and passing them as they rushed in their own lives and schedules, and if felt like they were not even part of this timeline.  
  
It was the same acrylic painting Yuta _fought_ with just the night before, his name doodled uncaringly on the back of it; God forbid if he signed on the color layer itself.

Taeyong looked a lot more decent now, his puffy eyes from last night subsided hours ago, and were replaced with tired dark circles.

 

“I can’t let you go.” Taeyong said, and Yuta’s heart skipped a beat. “I can’t let you go until you promise me.”

Yuta’s mind was stricken by a lightning, a harsh red lightning that pierced his veins and made them explode into the air. It felt as if the red in the painting was gushing out of its fabric cage and attacked his heart brutally.

Yuta’s silence made Taeyong repeat himself, “Promise me.”

 

Yuta couldn’t trust his voice in this situation, so he leaned in and pecked Taeyong’s lips, retracting rapidly just to see Taeyong’s face lighting up, illuminated with new strength in his smile. A trusting smile.

 

Yuta was already walking away when he disavowed what he have just done, denying his reality and the delusions he left his lover with.

 

 _“The sun will always rise again, but it is still too far away.”_ He remembered suddenly the quote written in one of Taeyong’s books in his apartment that he found while he snooped around when Taeyong was out for work.

Taeyong wasn’t just his sun. He was the shade of his blood, the beat of his heart and the clouds in his mind. He was the monster he wanted to submit to.

 

But instead, he stabbed that monster in the core, dragging it down the path of the infinite red ocean he himself was almost drowned by; and the dagger was misshaped, it was just a misleading promise, a false hope he embedded in the both of them.

 

_“The important thing, is to discover an inner script... with which we can explore ourselves organically.”_

_-_ Pierre Alechinsky

 

\------

 

 

 

 

I couldn't choose the most proper title for this chapter, so I chose two - **[Facteur Rhésus](https://uploads3.wikiart.org/images/pierre-alechinsky/rhesus-factor-facteur-rh-sus-1967.jpg) / [Ligne Directe](https://uploads0.wikiart.org/images/pierre-alechinsky/direct-line-ligne-directe-1976.jpg)**  
I think both of those paintings represents their realtionship and the powerful impact they had on each other.   
Also, I would like to ask you to enter the links and share with me what do you think those painting represent in the story/chapter. Thank you so much for reading ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M A HORRIBLE PERSON I KNOW


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